I was never one for nights out. Running into the occasional drunk screaming bloody murder isn’t the ideal night for me, and running into the drunks that were getting bloodily murdered was not an event that I needed to witness more than once a day. On nights like this, however, the nights where the air is crisp enough to taste the cold, it doesn’t hurt to go for a walk.

The only essentials needed for these nights are a warm coat and a loaded gun. Also some pants, of course. One can never be caught with them down. The pants are a staple of important business. Professionalism, if you will. Call it whatever you want; a nightly job, a stroll in the park, mild stalking. I however call it hunting. What do you think the pants are for? If I’m gonna kill, I’ve gotta look decent for it.

His name? Don’t know it. Quite honestly, I don’t care. For now we’ll call him John. All I got was an address. I can’t tell you the number or else I’d end up like my John Doe friend, but I can tell you he lives on Presidential Street. No better way to die than the presidential way. One bullet. One head. A clean shot...unless we’re talking about Kennedy, but let’s not touch that. The only concern I have right now is John’s head...the one above his shoulders that is.

***

I’ve kept tabs and filled up notebooks on this John Doe for a month now. Not a very complicated man. Goes to work with his $250 suit and tie with a pristine leather briefcase hung without any care by his side, probably a gift from his ex-wife. Picks up a dark cup of joe right before work at the Quentin diner. It’s actually not that bad of a place. The family is nice, the coffee is to die for, and they’re always up for giving free information. He spends his days in the office neck deep in paperwork and eyes glued to the secretary. Usually whenever she bends over to pick up something he dropped. She always made sure to show him just enough to keep him satisfied until their hotel visits. I can see why his wife left him, and also why she put the hit out on him. She offered a helluva lot of cash to have him dead. I was willing to do it for half. After his work, he always walked back home at ten in the afternoon. Always when it’s dark and the lights of the street lamps illuminated his way home. For the past month he has not changed his routine. Always walked the same path. Always bought the same Joe. Always checked out the secretary after he “drops” his stapler. And always walked back home at ten. I could’ve taken him out two weeks after accepting the job. One week, maybe. Heck, I could’ve looked at his routine for three days and then get it over with, but there was something about tonight. Maybe it was the crisp air. Perhaps the sound of saxophones in the wind. Just something told me it was time. So I put on a coat, loaded my Smith and Wesson, and pulled up a good pair of pants.

His apartment was fairly comfortable. Small, not too flashy, and considerably affordable in this day and age. His chair that I was sitting in was leather and placed right in front of the velvet curtains, obviously this guy had a certain taste. The lock on the door starts to jostle. He was searching for the right key. It would take him about three times to finally get it right. Just enough to get up, get a glass of water, and sit back down.

“Stupid door. They never get it right.” He mumbled to himself in the darkness. I have to admit that a smile had blessed me with its presence upon my face. Watching this fool walk into his place and be so used to his surroundings. So familiar. So safe. It was funny. I saw him coming my way, ready to enjoy a smoke in his expansive leather chair.

“Tell me Johnny, what don’t they get right?” I watched him stumble back. Of course, he didn’t catch his balance. “Is it the door they don’t get right,” I ripped the velvet sheets away from the window. The light from the moon mixed with the artificial lamps gave an unholy illumination into the room. “Or the keys they don’t get right?”

“What’re you doing in my place?” He managed to pick himself back up. He really tried to act tough. Nobody wants to look weak in their home. They want to show you that they mean business. That this is their house. He was no exception, even if he was doing a poor job.

“What are you doing not keeping your windows locked?”

Confusion was a look I couldn’t help, but find myself amused at, and by God was this poor man confused. “What’re you...I always keep my windows locked.”

“Then how the hell did I get in her-” I turned around to be reminded that I had smashed the window in. Looks like the drinks John Doe had were stronger than expected. “Never mind.”

He attempted to straighten himself up. He puffed out his chest, stood tall, and really tried to convince me that this apartment still belonged to him. “Look sir, I-I don’t want no trouble. I highly recommend you get on out of here before I c-call the police.” A stutter. A crack. A faint peak into what he is. And him practically giving me the key to his place.

“I don’t think I need to worry about the police for a while. Either way, you won’t have enough time to go to the phone you keep in your bedroom, the only phone in the apartment, dial the police and get through the operator in time. So why don’t you pull up a seat and we can talk for a bit.” He stared at me like a child looking at the old pictures of their ma and pops. Absolutely confused as to why they had little to no clothes on.

“You’re not naked underneath that coat are you?”

“I’ve got pants on underneath. What kind of a man do you think I am? Now go on, pull up a seat and we can talk.”

Again he wore the expression of a scared child. He had laid his hands at his side and fiddled with his cheap pockets.“Your...you're sitting in my chair, sir.” Almost all of them say sir when I tell them to have a seat. There’s something about being told to sit down in your own house that has this sort of power. Or relinquish of power, that is. But of course it’s not the simple act of asking that relinquishes your power.

“There’s a stool right behind you at your counter. Go ahead, take a seat.” It’s the obeying that relinquishes your power. Without breaking eye contact, he walked backwards, waving his arms behind him desperate to find his seat. As expected he slammed his hand into the metal stool set just beneath his counter. I could hear him hold back tears, but to be fair I’ve been hearing him hold back his tears for a while now. These walls ain’t exactly thick. Getting back on topic, he pulled out the stool and slowly backed into it like an infant backing into their baby toilet. I wondered if he was gonna wet himself. If he did, there’d be no harm. He never wore a good pair of pants.

“I’m assuming you don’t know why I’m in your apartment?” He shook his head. “Yeah, I suspected that. People like you don’t really expect someone like me to eventually find you.”

His voice was merely a dog's whimper. “People like me…” I couldn’t understand what he had said.

“Speak up please. It’s a little hard to hear you with all the music.”

There it was again; the confusion. The lost look he had in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if this was really happening. “What music-”

“Don’t change the subject.” They could never hear it. Death’s tunes playing from all around. From down below to high up in heaven. He couldn’t hear the bony fingers tip tap on the keys; not hear the pulling of the strings. His strings. Tendons being playing like a bass in a club. His heart being used as Death’s personal drum. He couldn’t hear Death’s performances as they played a new tune every couple of minutes, and by God each tune was beautiful. “I said to speak up. What did you ask?”

“What people are like me?” He actually spoke up that second time. Not enough to intrude on Death’s ballad, but just enough to give him an answer.

“People of routine.” I leaned forward in his leather throne. “Always so comfortable with what their life is, they never feel that they’re doing anything wrong. Never question their actions. Go along with life as they see fit.”

“And what person are you.” Confidence is easily confused with comfort. I couldn’t tell if his voice was comfortable or confident. It was definitely a challenge, however.

“A reminder. A sort Morman knocking at your door, always making sure you remember you can’t be too comfortable. I’m also mistaken for, sometimes, as the judge, jury, and executioner for whoever’s door I’m knocking at. Or in this case, whichever window I’m breaking into.” The only thing I could hear was Death’s strings again, along with that beautiful trumpet. I thought I would reassure him. Make him comfortable again. “Of course, I did say people confused me as those figures. Really I’m just one of them.”

“W...Which one is that...sir?” I leaned back in his throne, taking his air while I’m at it.

“Well you tell me. You’re the one with the gun pointed at you.”

“A gun?” He had no gun pointed at him. I hadn’t even pulled it out of my coat.

“Oh, of course! Silly me.” I pulled out my old reliable and rested it upon the arm of the leather. “Thank you for reminding me. Slipped my mind I guess.” With a smile, a wink, and a pull of the hammer, I’ll be damned to say he wasn’t on his best behavior.

“What do you want from me, sir?” Now the fun was over. I had to get back to my job. There is a time and place for everything, and there was no better time to finally reveal my royal flush.

“Do you remember Nancy Conoway?” I’ll never forget his face. Pale as the devil when he fell from heaven. His eyes wider than a cadaver without lids.

“Nancy?” A soft voice. A scarred voice.

“So you do remember her. She sends her regards, and wants you to know she’ll never forgive you for what you did to your little girl.”

“Joyce? Tell me how she is ? How’s my little-” Bang. I always imagine the sound of a gun sounding like a snapping of Death’s fingers. Just another beat added to the music.

“Your little angel...is living a much better life now.” His body gave no response. He simply leaned back as if his secretary friend was treating him real well.

***

I was never one for nights out, but on nights like this it doesn’t hurt to put on a good coat, have a loaded 19 in your pocket, have a good pair of pants on and go for a walk. Especially when Death’s always playing that sweet bass, smooth piano, and fine set of drums. It’s nights like these, that keep the world fresh.